The Storm in the Teacup
by RobinRocks
Summary: Crossover between APH and SH: A Game of Shadows - a musing upon the coming war. "Hmm." England smirks. "I have to say that I'm rather disappointed myself - by the great detective Sherlock Holmes, that is." For AutumnDynasty!


This is a birthday present for my dear **AutumnDynasty**'s 23rd birthday (now we're old and decrepit together, lawl). C: She set me a prompt based on the newest Sherlock Holmes film installment, _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_, and originally I was going to keep just to the film itself but the more I thought about the actual plot of _A Game of Shadows_, the more I thought this would be quite an interesting idea. SO: AutumnDynasty, I hope you don't mind that it's a crossover with _Hetalia Axis Powers_.

...Who are we kidding? _Of course_ you don't mind. XD

(Not so) curiously, we did actually go up to the _real_ 221b Baker Street in London last week. A grand time was had by all~

**Warning:** Slight spoilers for _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_. No spoilers whatsoever for _Hetalia Axis Powers_, though. Haha.

The Storm in the Teacup

"Sometimes I feel like blowing my brains out."

Sherlock Holmes, never one to sit ramrod-straight around dainty teacups that sing on their saucers, hooks one leg over the arm of his chair. The fire spits merrily and he cocks his head, amused.

"That seems rather drastic," he says nonchalantly. "And rather morbid, I hope you won't mind my saying. Honestly, I am as alarmed by your words as I should be if Her Majesty herself had uttered them."

"I see." The great detective's guest - an unassuming man of a quiet, secret existence - colours himself with a cold smile. "I do hope that you do not consider dear Victoria and I to be of the same calibre."

"Not entirely." Holmes takes delight in mirroring this man's smile - really, truly, it _is_ an honour. "But raised by the same silver spoon, perhaps?"

"Oh, goodness," the man sighs despairingly. "_Do_ spare me the indignity of your views on class and poverty. How frightfully dull."

Holmes laughs.

"I wouldn't dream of it, dear fellow," he says.

"Good," says his guest; haughty, self-entitled, eyes that flare a smoky and impatient jade.

Of course, secret though it may be, little gets past Sherlock Holmes. He has known of this man's existence for years, though this is the first that he has ever met him. It is Mycroft, in fact, who has had his acquaintance in the past; truly Holmes believes that their now-mutual friend may even rather like Mycroft, which is rare in and of itself.

Nobody likes Mycroft. Not even Mycroft.

But he strays from the point, which has nothing to do with Mycroft and everything to do with that fact that he has the physical embodiment of his country - England, Great Britain, the cornerstone of an entire empire - sitting in his living room taking tea with him. Not that Holmes drinks tea, particularly; England does. Compliments it, even, though Holmes will be sure not to pass on the praise to Mrs Hudson.

There is no pretense about this, which Holmes appreciates. Holmes knows and England - or Arthur Kirkland, as he introduced himself - knows that he knows. There is an understanding, then, for Holmes implied that all the same, he would not be calling him by any such falsehood and England waved the offered 'Arthur Kirkland' aside as though it didn't matter. And it doesn't - not here. Holmes is a secretive man himself and respect is more than enough to buy his silence.

Holmes wonders briefly what Mycroft calls him - England or Arthur. Obviously Mycroft knows. Likely Mycroft knew before him.

"Mycroft," England says suddenly, casting Holmes a sharp look. "Will he be joining us?"

Holmes smirks.

"I fear not," he replies.

"You did not invite him, I take."

"I did not." Holmes arches an eyebrow, genuinely curious. "...Forgive me, should I call you 'sir'? 'My lord', perhaps?"

England in turn looks highly amused.

"Oh, that _is_ kind of you," he says, "but I am perfectly aware that you've no intention of calling me either. You have already made it quite clear that you prefer for there to be, ah, truth - some, at least - in your manner of address. Which, if you'll pardon my accusation, does strike me as somewhat ironic."

Oho. Holmes leans back, enjoying himself. He never took this man to be stupid, of course not - anyone immortal must, after all, at least be clever enough to outsmart death - but it seems that he may be yet more intelligent that Holmes previously gave him credit for.

England glances around the room - the comfortable living room of 221b Baker Street with all manner of wild things flowering from the walls.

"And what of your inseperable partner?" he asks dryly. "Dr Watson? Will he not be gracing us with his company?"

"Oh, he is terribly busy this weather," Holmes says briskly; he sighs out the stale information. "He is soon to be wed, you see. He hasn't time for... well. All this." He waves his hand lazily about the room. "At least not anymore - I must give the old boy his due. He was a splendid companion before The Tragedy befell him."

"How sad," England says (without much sympathy). "And a shame, too. I wanted to meet him."

"Indeed?" Holmes senses something a little bit malicious in his tone and perks up again; he is no mood to defend the traitor at the moment.

"Yes," England goes on primly, sipping at his tea. "I simply _must_ tell him how dreadful his prose is."

"Oh," Holmes says delightedly, "you have my word that I shall relay the message to him."

"That's most kind." England finally puts aside his teacup - Mrs Hudson's very best china - and draws his legs up on his seat, at last twisting himself out of the sort of regality that belongs on a coin.

Holmes reaches for his pipe and nibbles thoughtfully on the bitterness of it as he watches him. This... _thing_ before him is incredibly fascinating, he must admit. He knows that all other countries have one too but this is the first one he has ever seen - and how fitting that it should be his own (and at the height of his power, too). England is rather small for an adult male, perhaps reflective of the size of the landmass itself, with a very young face and deeply green eyes. His accent has a hint of London in it, just a touch, but he doesn't look like a Londoner. He's too pale, too blonde; it's not even that he looks like an aristocrat, for Holmes can tell that he has certainly seen his share of hard work (it is in his eyes, in his hands, in his smile). He simply... doesn't look entirely human.

Oh, what Sherlock Holmes wouldn't give to examine him; to peel off his clothes and then peel off his skin, cut him open and see how his body ticks, wound him and poison him and bleed him dry - just to see how he _works_. The wish to blow his brains out, after all, is only the ironic joke of a man who cannot die (and a few things more). Holmes does not consider such things to be cruel; it is science, it is knowledge, and both are fair game to be devoured if only one can grasp them.

But Holmes will not touch him nonetheless. He can read lesser men like books and read equal men like codes - it can be done, he can unravel what they will do before they do it. That is the key to winning a fight. It has nothing to do with brute strength. But Holmes cannot read this creature and even he, foolish as he may be when the mood strikes him, will not risk it.

There is too much at stake elsewhere to risk having his throat ripped out in the middle of his own living room.

(There is perhaps no risk at all. Perhaps England will simply lie there and let him do it - he just doesn't know. That is why Holmes does not dare to touch him. He does not know.)

And then, of course, there is the small matter of what Great Britain is going to do next if Moriarty's symphony bends the world to his will. _That_ Holmes knows all too well.

"Mr Holmes," England sighs, "I must confess to my boredom. Please, if we could come to why you invited me here, I would be most grateful. I already know, of course, though I do believe that we arrived at our similar conclusions through entirely different channels."

Holmes chews on the end of his pipe, slouching in his seat.

"I admit I was curious as to how much you know," he says sourly. "You might know more than I at this point."

England gives a considering nod.

"Perhaps," he agrees. "Though I will confess that this... Professor James Moriarty is little more than a name and a profile to me. I can offer you no help there."

"I don't expect you to offer me any help whatsoever," Holmes says around his pipe; his fingers lace together and he crosses one ankle over the other.

"Well, I do think that's rather preemptive of you," England sighs. "But you're probably right. I can be rather self-serving at times. We all can."

Holmes exhales and looks at the ceiling.

"It isn't that, as such," he replies. "It is just that I am somewhat under the impression that war is... well, a very normal thing for you. For all of you."

"Absolutely." England traces the rose patterns on his saucer with a forefinger; his touch is delicate, gentle, steady. Holmes can imagine perfectly those sweet and deceptive fingers wrapping around the necks of men; his hands are much, much too steady to be human.

Watching him, then, Holmes can't help but give a disgusted sigh. There is no reasoning with this creature and he was idiotic to even entertain the idea; Mycroft had advised him against it, after all. Holmes himself sees well the ills and follies of mankind but he is amongst them nonetheless.

England cannot possibly understand.

"Forgive me," Holmes exhales suddenly, frustrated. "It has just occurred to me that I am wasting your time. I do apologise."

England looks up from his teacup, his eyes bright and curious; centuries of cruelty and bloodshed so brazenly hidden behind the face of little more than a teenager.

"Come now, my dear Holmes," he says gently. "You speak as though _I_ am your enemy."

Holmes glowers.

"I'm not entirely sure that you aren't, old boy," he replies gingerly.

"Mr Holmes, I am flattered by the grand assumptions you cast upon me," England goes on patiently, "but I am nothing terribly special. I have lived for a very long time and I shall continue to do so, for Death does not dare to tread upon my heels as long as my land and my people live - but I am no influence on military leaders, nor indeed upon the stock market. This war is coming and I can do nothing to stop it, on that you have my word. Now whether I will _enjoy_ it or not is an entirely different matter; but please know that even my selfishness does not extend so far as to expend the lives of thousands of my young men. The war will be about bad blood, not adventure."

"It will be about money if Moriarty gets his way," Holmes says darkly. "He stands to make millions as things stand."

"The war will still happen even if you stop him," England says. "It has been in the works for years. Professor Moriarty is a shrewd man, I must say. It will come to industrialised war soon enough on its own - why _not_ be the orchestrator and pocket the fee, so to speak?"

"Because it is _immoral_!" Holmes slams his fist down on the arm of his chair, looking at his nation in angry disbelief. "Do you really mean to tell me that you agree with Moriarty?"

England shrugs and unfolds himself from his chair, standing.

"I see the method in his madness, if that is what you mean." He shoots the detective a reproachful look. "Really, it's terribly arrogant of you to expect me to choose sides," he goes on archly. "I don't know much about immorality, I will admit - but I do understand logic and I can't help but think that out of both of your planned courses of action, Moriarty's is, in fact, more logical. Though yours," he adds as afterthought, "is more admirable, of course."

"You flatter me," Holmes deadpans.

"I should hope that I flatter you both, given that you are both Englishmen."

Holmes rises as England reaches for his cloak; it is clear that the conversation is over.

"I fear that I have been a disappointment to you," England muses as Holmes goes to the door, still chewing on his pipe.

"Oh, I shouldn't worry," Holmes replies. "I am more than used to it by now."

"Hmm." England smirks. "I have to say that I'm rather disappointed myself - by the great detective Sherlock Holmes, that is."

Holmes arches an interested brow.

"And why, pray tell?"

"Because I said I wanted to blow my brains out," England sighs, "and you never told me why. I was led to believe by Dr Watson's accounts of your adventures that unravelling such cryptic statements was something of a specialty of yours."

"Oh, that." Holmes sticks his hands in his pockets as England passes him to leave. "I hardly thought it worth mentioning. You do make it so very obvious."

England's eyes sharpen as he pauses to look at him.

"I make _what_ so very obvious?" he inquires; interested, dangerous, the core of Moriarty's sickness.

"You will deny your selfishness once again," Holmes says, "but you want the war. Oh, _how_ you want it - not because you think Englishman Moriarty is deserving enough for his shrewdness to grow rich from it, nor indeed because it would be splendid for Englishmen Holmes and Watson to foil his plan and save the day. No, it is because you crave war, you know war well and you want what is familiar, what is comfortable. You know it is coming, you know that this is the price that the world will pay for industrialism, and you can bear waiting no longer. Whether I can stop Moriarty or not, it will begin with a shot - and you want it to be you. You applaud Moriarty for getting the wheels turning but how jealous you would be, really, if he was the one to have that glory. You want that shot to be yours - because, my dear country, my wonderful England, you have greed and you have ideas and you're tired of talking, tired of trying to make yourself heard in courts over teacups. Wouldn't it be easier, old friend, if you could just pull the trigger and start the wonderful war on your own terms?"

Sherlock Holmes smiles.

"Blow out your brains on the battlefield and it begins," he breathes in delight. "The war to end all wars, just as you want it, and the world will be yours once and for all when you win."

* * *

**One:** I'm amazed it's taken me _this long_ to marry these two things together in one fic. XD ...Actually, part of the Halloween fic I was planning for Halloween 2011 had a _Sherlock Holmes_/_Hetalia_ crossover but then... John Lewis ate my life. And then my laptop broke and ate what I'd written. So all in all it wasn't a good time for HolmesxHetalia. T.T

**Two:** England and Stephen Fry hanging out? YES PLEASE.

**Three:** AutumnDynasty, I hope it was to your liking~!


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